


The River Afton

by Eishexe



Series: The Forgotten Tales of the Giant of Sherwood [2]
Category: Robin Hood (2010)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eishexe/pseuds/Eishexe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even the jolly giant has his secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The River Afton

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: No rights to the characters/locations/etc of Robin Hood 2010 movie or of the folktales/history upon which it was based.
> 
> Song : Sweet Afton cover by Nickel Creek
> 
> *beag duine - Gaelic for Little One

It starts with a small squeak on the edge his consciousness. A disembodied voice, something so far away it cannot matter or concern him. It could be birds singing but it cannot be morning yet either. He just layed down not moments before. The squeaks become hushed tones of his name being called repeatedly and with growing panic. Where is it coming from and why can they not leave him be? Let him get a few small moments of rest before the day begins again. Then hid space is invaded by two little hands gripping his scar riddled shoulder and shaking him with all the frantic strength they possess. He snaps awake with such viciousness, his name becomes a muted gasp of terror. A half choked sob. He finds his hand wrapped tightly about the knife's hilt he has taken to hiding beneath his pillow, already half out of bed to gut the intruder. Only there is no intruder; and his stomach sinks as the echoed thud of the blade hitting the dirt resounds in his ears.

“I sorry Da’!” she chokes, tears pouring from glassy emerald eyes. “I didn'na mean...I...I ‘ada ba’ deam!”

He does not answer, at least not audibly; lifting the would be intruder gently into his embrace. She wraps her tiny arms about her father’s neck and buries her face in his shoulder. Instantly they are both soaked in her tears, and his heart bleeds. He rocks her gently in silence. For his addled mind cannot remember, just now, any of the old songs; the lullabys his mother sung to him as a child. Years of war and death have dimmed those memories. Notwithstanding the soldier turned outlaw has probably taken one too many blows to the head if he is honest with himself. He hugs her tighter, as if he can simply will away her pain.

“None of tha’ now, beag duine*.” He whispers, smoothing down disheveled chestnut locks, placing a quick peck amongst them. “It’s just a dream. It can’na hurt ye’a.”

The child responds with more tears. Her little body shuddering with sobs, as her hold around his neck tightens fiercely. He shushes her, standing up and walking the length of their meager hovel and back again. Bouncing her gingerly against his chest, He dredge through his memory. Something of his childhood still has to be there, however deeply buried. He berates himself that Ana would not have had an issue with this. She would have known what to do, because this is women folk’s work. Hushing a frightened child. She would have known exactly how to curb their daughters tears. But Ana isn’t here. God has taken her from them. He swallows thickly at how angry that makes him. He continue to pace tiredly, snagging the fur blanket from her bed and wrapping it about her.

Tossing another log to the half dead fire, the room fills with renewed heat. The nights are growing colder. The dangers of winter creeping into the woodlands, like a thief. The kings deer will become scarce soon; but they had prepared for it well enough. No one would go hungry this season. Not with Robin to look after things, and keep them all in line. Almost subconsciously, he steps over to the solitary window their home possesses and pulls back the roughly shaped shutter peering into the clearing. The watch is changing guard but the night is otherwise silent. Latching the shutter closed again he crosses back to the little fire in one step and sit down upon the hearth. His daughter's tears are still now and her breathing even but she is still awake. The grip upon his neck is evidence enough. He takes to rocking again and never notices he is humming, until the words begin to spill out in a quiet and slow baritone rumble.

Flow gently sweet Afton among thy green braes  
Flow gently I'll sing thee a song in thy praise  
My Joana's asleep by thy murmuring stream  
Flow gently sweet afton, disturb not her dream.  
Thou stock dove whose echo resound through the glen  
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den  
Thou green crested lapwing thy screaming forbear  
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair  
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills  
Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills  
There daily I wander as noon rises high  
My flocks and my Joana's sweet cot in my eye  
How pleasant thy banks and sweet valleys below  
Where wild are the woodlands, the primroses blow  
There oft, as mild evening weeps over the lea  
The sweet scented birk shades my Joana and me  
Thy crystal stream, afton, how lovely it glides  
And winds by the cot where my Joana resides  
How wanton the waters her snowy feet lave  
As gathering sweet flowers, she stems thy clear wave  
Flow gently sweet Afton among thy green braes  
Flow gently sweet river, the theme of my lays  
My Joana's asleep by thy murmuring stream  
Flow gently sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

  
The silence that follows his voice is hollow and painful, but she is asleep. Despite the memories that now weigh upon him, he smiles. Of all the songs for him to remember and to successfully lull his child to sleep, it had to be that one. Moving to her bed with stealth his size should not permit, he lays her gently down; tucking the blanket in around her. He nearly scoffs at himself, whisping a stray hair from her face. Had you told him but five seasons before that he would be a widower with a child. He would certainly have laughed in your face.

_He had run from home the moment King Richard had sent the out call for sturdy men to fuel his armies. He was younger then, and impossibly more foolish. With a temper to match his stature fighting was the one thing that came easy to him. King Richard’s holy crusade meant little to him. He never much thought why he was fighting, or who he was killing for king and country. At least he had not until Robin had misjudged the King of England, and gotten the lot of them locked up for his honest streak. Course it was he that knocked the King on his arse to begin with so it was just as much his temper’s fault as Robin’s tongue. Still it had been a sheer luck the old Lion was already drunk, and his memory as thickly clouded as his judgement. The night would have gone very differently had Richard the Lionheart bothered to look the over sized soldier in the eye._

So much his fellow men of the hood did not know. So much they never could know. He sighs low, returning to his bed; he picks up the forgotten dagger from the dirt. Wiping it clean he returns it to its place. There wasn’t then, nor is there now, anyone left in Scotland that watches the road for his return. His mother had died just two years after he had run off to take back the Holy Land. The letter had been sealed with his father’s mark. He burned it that same night, along with any hope of seeing the Highlands again. No one could know the truth. Not even the little girl that lay slumbering just beyond the fading fire light.

England is his home now, and Sherwood his kingdom. Wherever Robin goes he shall follow. This is where he is needed, and he has no intention of breaking the unspoken vow he made the the prince of thieves. Even though his child will never know the call of the Highlands, he cannot feel guilty. She will not miss the ever reaching fields of emerald that her eyes so painfully remind him of. Nor the wide open smoky skies, that never end. For she will not know they exist. She will never understand the pain of home being the one place she cannot go. And that above all else is what John Little takes comfort in the most.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Feedback appreciated!


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